Dead Europe

  The pornographic words fell out across the audience, and slowly the men began to touch hands and feet, began caressing the half-naked waiters standing around them. I watched money—euros, sterling, dollars—slip from palm to pocket, slipped in between the suspenders and bare flesh. In the back, in the half darkness, some of the men had unzipped, were undoing their trouser buttons, and had started to masturbate.

  —He whispered to me, Remember I love you, nephew, and then he pushed his thick big cock up my arse. Maria trills, a melodramatic operatic shriek. Oh, it did hurt.

  The boy on stage had been shaved, and his pale pink pursed arsehole appeared prepubescent. Pano was still clothed; only his cock was naked, only his cock was exposed. He lay the boy on the podium, turned him onto his back, lifted the boy’s thin smooth legs over his own tuxedoed shoulders, and he entered him. In the middle of the room, a shower of semen arced, reflecting silver as it was touched by the candlelight.

  —But as his thrusts continued into me, the pain became indistinguishable from the greatest pleasure I had ever known. Fuck me, Uncle, fuck me!

  From where I stood, I could see the boy’s face. His eyes were screwed shut, and every time Pano bucked into his frail body I could hear tight, pained grunts. His pain excited me. The boy’s thin body shuddered and as I looked down at him it seemed that his skin had fallen away and his very bones were visible; and when I searched his face it had darkened, his hair was now black, not fair, and the gaunt face that leered up at me was looking straight into my eyes and his eyes were shining, they were laughing, and I knew those eyes, had always known those eyes.

  Fuck me, screamed Maria, and the boy was laughing and Pano was slamming into him and I turned away but not before my own cock twitched against my jeans and I felt a warm ooze jerk from inside.

  I rested my face on the cool wall. Maria continued to sing her song but I was no longer listening. I did not know where my shame was coming from. I had seen sex acts before, and hadn’t I even paid for sex with an Athenian whore only a few weeks ago, who, if I was honest with myself, would not have been much older than the boy Pano was fucking on the podium? But whatever its source, the contempt I felt for myself was rich, righteous and mortifying. If I could not be sure if I was ashamed of being a man, or of being a man who was a fag, or of both, or of being a white man in an Eastern city, or of all of it, I knew enough to know that I was ashamed of being human. You are in Hell. This time I whispered the words to myself.

  Mathilde was still sitting in the room. I sat on the dresser and offered her a cigarette again. She glanced quickly at the door and took it from my hands. She smoked nervously, quickly, and after the third puff she gave it back. We sat and waited in silence.

  When Maria returned she did not look at me. She said something quickly to Mathilde, who followed her immediately behind the curtain. After a few moments Pano burst into the room. Ignoring me, he began to strip. He threw the bow tie and his clothes and shoes in a pile on the floor. Standing naked, he wiped his cock, then shouted for his wife, who emerged from behind the curtain with a bundle of clothes. On the pale pink of his upper left arm, I saw the Star of David, the coarse yellow lines blurred with age to a mustard colour. I almost reached out to touch it. Syd burst laughing into the room. He sat beside me and winked at Pano.

  —They love you.

  —Have you my money? I noticed that Pano had turned away and hastily put on a shirt to cover the tattoo.

  Syd took a roll of bills from his pocket and handed them to Pano. Mathilde came up next to her husband, grabbed the roll of bills and placed them inside her bra. She said something to Pano.

  But Syd shook his head.

  —No, you can’t leave yet, someone has paid for you tonight.

  —I can’t tonight, answered Pano, smiling at his wife.

  —Suit yourself. It’s three hundred American.

  Pano smiled ruefully at his wife. He spoke to her in Russian and she, glancing first at Syd, slowly nodded.

  —Who is it?

  —Guess. Syd looked over at me. Your friend Stephen is a fool with his money.

  Maria came from behind the curtain, wearing the dress she had worn back at the party. Syd held out another bundle of notes. Wordlessly taking it from him, she sat before the mirror and counted the money with a cigarette in her hand. Pano pulled on a pair of jeans.

  —It’s all there.

  She ignored Syd. He turned to Pano.

  —Come upstairs. The schmuck’s waiting. He turned to me.

  —And you?

  —I’m going to go home.

  —Steve’s going to be a while. He’s paid enough for it. He’s going to take his sweet time.

  —I want to go home.

  —No you don’t, said Syd. I have a present for you.

  —What kind of present?

  Syd called down the corridor. As Pano pulled the foolish fake moustache from his upper lip, a young boy came into the room. He was dark, small and thin, and he had large shining green eyes. He was dangerously young. There was a fine down beginning to sprout on his upper lip.

  —Sedat, said Syd, and the young boy looked up. Syd pointed at me. The boy came and took my hand. The face that looked up to mine was resigned, emotionless. I shook my head, and Sedat, now confused, dropped my hand. In the mirror I could see Pano staring at me. I knew that what I was doing was not an act of a moralist. I was only trying to impress this strict Russian, to convince him I shared nothing with the men in the club, nothing with Syd, nothing with Sal Mineo. The boy was now sheepishly looking at Syd. He had only wanted to please, and he was fearful that he had failed to do so.

  Syd shrugged his shoulders and signalled for the boy to go over to him. Sedat smiled and went over. Syd fondled the back of the boy’s neck and Sedat closed his eyes and smiled. Syd kissed his brow. He then put his open mouth over the boy’s, watching me; daring me to look away. I did not take my eyes from them. Syd’s hand moved down the boy’s vest, the other hand cupped his crotch. The boy sank into the colossal girth of the slobbering man.

  I wanted to kill the filthy fat fuck, the urge to do so felt as if it were the very liquid of my bloodstream, that it was the source of Heaven and Hell and Earth itself; the urge was my very soul. But I knew that however primal the urge to kill and to rip the flesh and skin off the Jew, it was nothing compared to my envy of him. I wished it could be me, that it was I who would be taking this little boy, that it was I who would be turning him over as I had seen Pano do to the Czech boy on stage. I’d turn him over and I’d be just cock, just a cock ripping into the guts of the young boy. I would know—it would not be just a fantasy, not a guilty dream but reality—the anguish and the terror, and yes, the sweetness of fucking a child, of tearing into him, of making him bleed.

  I became the urge that stopped me moving closer to Syd and Sedat. To move any closer was not only to give in, to fuck. To move closer was to destroy, to kill, to be consumed. To move closer was to become one with them both.

  —Go, Pano, said Maria in English. Be quick.

  I opened my eyes. Syd had his right hand extended out to me; his other was still caressing Sedat’s throat. I shook his fleshy palm, shook it silently. I turned away from his gaze, refused it. It was as if he had seen into me, to the source of me. A thin trickle of cold semen slid down my thigh. Syd took the boy by the hand and left.

  Pano sniffed, rose and looked at himself in the mirror. He kissed Mathilde; she clung to his neck, then let him go. I got up to shake his hand but he had already turned and opened the door.

  He spoke rapid Russian to his mother and then turned to me.

  —That filthy Arab boy, he is a virgin, he’s just arrived. His brother works here as well. You are cruel to not have him. Now it will be one of the old faggots who will break him. Pano slammed the door.

  Maria smiled across at me.

  —Forgive my son, he is a very old-fashioned Russian man. To be accurate and even though he would never admit to such a thing, he is a very old-fashio
ned Soviet man. He detests the homosexuals.

  —I can see why.

  —Really? It simply strikes me as ignorance.

  She began scrubbing the make-up off her face.

  —Does Syd own this club?

  —Yes.

  —Is he very rich?

  —Very.

  —Pano must hate the Jews as well.

  She turned around then and slapped my face. It stung. Mathilde looked up, shocked, but on catching my eye she immediately looked down again at the floor.

  —My son is no fascist. At least the Jews and the homosexuals give him work.

  I stood up.

  —I should leave.

  —It is possible you escort us home?

  —Gladly. I was humbled by her reprieve.

  Maria turned and spoke some instructions to Mathilde, who grabbed a bag and quickly wiped the dresser clean. We waited for her. The corridor looped to the right and there was a small rusting metal door that opened up to an alley. We bent, crossed under, and were in the night breeze. I looked up the side of the black stone at the faint lights glowing through thick curtains on the second and third floors.

  —What is upstairs?

  —The bordello. Maria gripped one of my arms, and Mathilde, after hesitating, took another. The younger woman suddenly surprised me by kissing me and mumbling something rapid in Russian.

  —She’s blessing you. She is mad for God, that one. It disturbs me. Her generation have disowned politics for religion. Maybe I am just old but this seems very ridiculous to me.

  Mathilde hugged my arm tight as we stepped over a sleeping body in the alley and began to walk up a narrow street snaking away from the river.

  —Do you believe in God?

  —I don’t know.

  Maria mused on my answer.

  —Do you believe in anything?

  I was silent. She punched me lightly on my arm.

  —Well? Answer me.

  —In Australia I believe in lots of things. Here, in Europe, you all make me feel a little stupid. Do you understand? I don’t know if I believe anything in Europe.

  —Australia seems a perfect place in which to finish one’s life. I imagine it is a very quiet place, a very safe place.

  I laughed. A woman in a tight black bra and short denim skirt glanced at the three of us, then called back to a companion, another whore hiding in the shadows. They called after us for cigarettes.

  —Why do you laugh?

  —I don’t see why that is anything to be ashamed of.

  It was her turn to laugh.

  —And that is what surprises us Europeans about you Australians. That you would think that is something to be embarrassed by.

  —Most Europeans know nothing of Australia.

  —That’s true. We do not care.

  —And you, do you believe in God?

  Maria shrugged.

  —No. I was never religious. Neither were my parents. They were very good Bolsheviks. Even though they lived every moment of their life in fear, they were proud Party members.

  I couldn’t pretend to understand the depth of malice in her voice. So instead, I squeezed her hand. When she spoke again, her tone had softened.

  —My grandmother was a Jew. She was very superstitious.

  —That makes you and Pano both Jews, doesn’t it?

  The only sound in the city was the tap of heels on the cobbled street.

  —Syd does not know. He would not employ us if he knew. He is obsessed with taking revenge on history. But being Jewish was never of importance to me. I did not even circumcise my son. You noticed his tattoo? He did this to spite me. Of that I’m sure.

  —Your name is not very Jewish.

  —Was not Christ’s mother a Jew?

  I blushed. And she laughed.

  —I am not named after your Virgin. I would like to believe I am a descendant of another Maria, or to give her the true name, Miriam. She was a Jew as well, living in Jerusalem when the Temple fell. There was a great hunger and a great death when the Romans took the city. The people feared both the powerful Romans and the fanatical Jewish rebellion. Rather than letting her children suffer she killed them and ate from their flesh. When the rebels came upon her she offered them the meat. Maria paused, and then spoke in a language that I knew was not Russian.

  —Was that Hebrew?

  —Isaac, I am so disappointed in you. That was your language, that was spoken in the tongue of the ancient Greeks.

  —That is not my language.

  She translated for me.

  —Eat, for I have already eaten. Can it be you are afraid? Are you weaker than a woman, weaker than even a mother?

  She then touched my face. We had stopped before a tall apartment block, its blue paint chipped, its windows cracked and dirty.

  —Next time you pray to your Maria, give a thought to my Miriam.

  —Leave, I said quietly. The three of you should leave Prague.

  —My daughter-in-law is pregnant, Isaac, who will protect her? Where should we go? Would you take us to Australia?

  And for one moment, a grace of a moment, I thought I saw hope in her eyes. Then there was only a mocking tenderness.

  —A pleasure to meet you, Isaac.

  —Can’t you go to Israel? The words came out in a rush and for a moment I thought she had not understood me. She touched my cheek again.

  —It is possible. Maybe I go when my wanderings are finished. Maybe I go when God forgives me. When God forgives me, maybe the Russians in Israel will forgive me as well. She kissed me on the lips.

  —Goodbye, Isaac.

  I watched the two women walk, hand in hand, into the shadows of the night.

  I walked the dark city, past whores and beggars, drunkards and dopers, revellers and madmen shouting out the varied names of Paradise and of Hell. I crossed streets and alleys and boulevards and bridges and I kept walking, exhausted, all the while repeating to myself, I once had a teacher, I once had a teacher, and he taught me there was a city called Prague and that once hope existed in this city, and I kept walking and walking but dawn came and I had found no hope.

  He was waiting for me. He began beating me with his fists as soon as he saw me. His photographs of Pano were scattered all over the floor. Someone or something had scratched the prints; serrated tears ripped through Pano’s face and body and neck. In the near-dawn light it seemed that the portraits were bleeding from their wounds. I held Sal Mineo’s fists and whispered to him that I had not done this, I had not done this, and eventually he stopped hitting me and began to cry and I took him and lay in bed with him, stroking his shoulders, kissing his neck. I held him tight till sleep took hold of him instead.

  In the morning I packed my things and Sal Mineo took me for coffee in the square. There were tourists with backpacks like mine and there were elegently suited young people sipping espressos in the sunshine. I looked across to the intricate figures on the cathedral dome and I said to Sal Mineo, You live in a beautiful city. While we were drinking our coffee, the old woman who was cleaning the cafe floor tripped over her broom and upended a bucket. The dirty water spilled across the cafe’s smooth porcelain floor. The goateed waiter rushed over to her, screaming. He was pulling her arm, and the young people around us were laughing and pointing. I asked Sal Mineo what the waiter had said and he answered, That they will get rid of her, that she’s worthless, that she’s no good. The old woman, now crying, was wiping her hands on her stained blue uniform. She refused to look any of us in the eye as the waiter dragged her out back. I stood up.

  —I have to go.

  Sal Mineo kissed my cheek. Once, twice. A gypsy child asked me for money and I gave him the last krona notes I had left. The train arrived.

  —You shouldn’t do that, said Sal Mineo, you shouldn’t encourage them. He then slipped a thick joint into my shirt pocket. Memento from Praga, he grinned. He became serious. Smoke it before the German border. It didn’t use to matter, but, you know, these days, security. Of course, I
answered, security.

  And with that, without once glancing back, my friend turned and walked away from me.

  STELLIOS LEPTOULIS HAD his blue cap rolled tight into a ball and he was crushing it with a tense grip. He was oblivious to what he was doing: what concerned him was that he had been ordered to wait in the town hall’s tiny cold vestibule till the Colonel was free; and Stellios was fearful that he would be spied by someone strolling past the building from the street. He kept his head bowed low into his chest, crushed his cap even tighter, and tapped his left foot with growing impatience. He could hear voices in one of the rooms off the hall, he could hear sounds from the markets outside in the main square, and he could hear the soft lilt of music from a wireless coming from deep within the town hall’s bowels. A heavy drop of sweat fell from his brow onto the cracked tile floor.

  He wiped his brow with his cap and swore softly to himself. What the devil is keeping him? The Colonel usually saw him straight away; Stellios would answer any questions the man had for him, and the interview would be terminated quickly. Ten minutes at the most. Stellios would then leave through the back of the town hall and make his way back to the centre of town in order to finish his bartering at the markets. He was distraught that he was being made to wait today. An old woman, her black shawl wrapped tight across her skull, peered through the heavy wood doors and Stellios abruptly turned his head away. The young soldier standing guard called out to her.

  —What do you want, Auntie?

  —Nothing, grumbled the old crone, and quickened her pace, almost tripping herself over in her fear and haste to get away. The soldier started to laugh, then looking back at Stellios, his young face turned sour and contemptuous.

  What the devil is keeping him, muttered Stellios. He turned his eyes towards the clock on the vestibule wall. An hour and a half, the Colonel had kept him waiting close to an hour and a half. This was ridiculous: how was he to be back home before nightfall? Ignoring the suspicious eyes of the young soldier, he got to his feet, made his way down the short corridor and knocked three times on the door to the Colonel’s room. He heard a hurried scraping of a chair across the tiles, a giggle, and then heard the Colonel’s low voice call out in anger, What the fuck is it?